Adventures in TV Land
by Boz1310
Summary: This mystical, magical, (albeit a little meretricious...) story is about John Watson discovering that Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective extraordinaire, does, in fact, possess a wide variety of knowledge about pop culture. Well, sort of…
1. The Sherlock

**Adventures in TV land **

**Boz1310**

_Warning: I do not own BBC Sherlock. This show rightfully belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The main characters are from the stories written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (bless his soul). I am simply an innocent fan girl with nothing else to do on a weekday… _

_AN: This might be my first crackfic… I guess it depends on your opinion of crack. I am thinking of making this story have multiple chapters. It will be a collection of little oneshots. This story is about John discovering that Sherlock does, in fact, possess a wide variety of knowledge about pop culture. Well, sort of… _

_Without further ado,_

_Enjoy!_

Chapter One- The Sherlock

Dr. John Watson let a deep sigh of relief escape his lips as he climbed up the seventeen steps leading him to his flat at 221B Baker Street. Since his flat mate, Sherlock Holmes, the infamous consulting detective did not have any cases that week; John had offered to take up more shifts at the local clinic. After all, there had been countless times Sherlock had ended up at the office with an exciting case. Despite the doctor's protests, he usually succeeding in persuading John to abandon his spot and join him in solving the aforementioned task. While it was terribly exhilarating, he often had to ignore the peeved expression on Sarah's face when he explained to her why he was leaving his shift yet again. That being said, she was always very sweet about it and had let him go most of the time. He felt he had to take up more shifts now that he had some time on his hands. It was the least he could do for Sarah and the patients.

In retrospect, John might have bitten off more than he could chew. When he agreed to substitute for some of the other GPs, he had no idea how many patients there would be. Apparently, there had been a public announcement about a minor Escherichia coli outbreak at a local swimming pool. As expected, one of the worst fears a doctor could have had ensued that day. No, it wasn't that dozens of people had been critically infected with the bacteria. Rather, it was that dozens of people plagued the small walk-in _claiming_ they had been infected with the bacteria. That's right- in fact John wanted to diagnose most of the people with a serious case of 'TV induced panic'. Coincidently, it had happened on the exact day that many of the doctors had decided to take their holidays. As if that wasn't enough, temperatures had also been a record-breaking high. This meant that John and Sarah were forced to interview their 'patients' about their supposed vomiting and diarrhea in cramped and humid spaces that smelt of wet dog and body odour. Needless to say, it had been an exhausting day.

All John wanted to do when he got home was to have a nice supper-take out, of course- a nice cup of tea, and a nice evening with the telly where he could spend an hour or two making fun of Grey's Anatomy or other medical shows.

However, having the flat mate that he did, he wasn't so sure his dream would become a reality.

Before he opened the door, he bowed his head and said a silent prayer.

_If there is a god in the heavens above-that includes all possible gods, unicorns and the flying spaghetti monster,_ he thought. _Please don't have Sherlock pester me with a case. Or worse, moan about how bored he is. I don't deserve that. I'm really tired and crotchety, especially today. I'm a good person. I heal people. I deserve an evening of rest._

Satisfied with his attempted prayer, he opened the door. He felt his eyes widen with disbelief. He felt his jaw drop in astonishment and his head tilt to the side. It was all he could do to close his mouth.

Now, John had been in the army. He was an ex-army doctor and a captain of the fifth Northumberland fusilier. He had stormed the deserts of Kandahar and Kabul with an unemotional and calm attitude. He had always handled every situation with self-regulation and coolness. It was difficult to surprise him. Moreover, it was especially difficult to render him completely and utterly speechless when he was having a bad day. In fact, it was seldom seen. In his lifetime there had been few men who could do the job. It didn't surprise him that one of the men was inflicting the same amount of speechlessness to him again. What did surprise him was what he was doing.

He supposed he had just caught Sherlock in the act.

No, not that act, you sick bugger. Get your mind out of the gutter! It was something worse… far worse. That's right, far worse than walking in on your best friend doing it. Having your best mate catch you boinking someone was extremely awkward, but it was justifiable to an extent. It was understandable. A best mate might just give you a fist bump and congratulate you for breaking your dry spell if he were that sort of fellow.

This was different in entirety.

He doubted that any person could justify this, let alone Sherlock. So that ruled out killing someone. John had to admit that Sherlock could easily explain why he had killed someone if he had decided to commit the heinous deed, particularly if that someone were to be Anderson. After all, a good friend helped you move, but a true friend helped you move a body. Not that that was John. John was good person…

No, Sherlock was doing that unexplainable. The unthinkable. John pinched himself to make sure he was not hallucinating from the poisonous fumes expelled by the patients' sweat glands he encountered that day at the clinic. Nope, this was real.

Glory be-this was real!

Sherlock Holmes was…dancing. What was better was that in all his excitement he did not notice John. Stifling his laughter, John crept behind the sofa and watched his friend dance. He was tempted to pull out his phone and get a recording he could use for blackmail, but he decided against it at the last moment. He even recognized the song. That intro with the trumpets was telltale enough.

It's not unusual to be loved by anyone  
It's not unusual to have fun with anyone  
but when I see you hanging about with anyone  
It's not unusual to see me cry,  
oh I wanna' die

John realized after a few seconds that he was doing the Carlton. With an unlit candlestick in hand, hips a-swaying and fingers a-snapping, Sherlock was doing the Carlton dance whilst lip-syncing to Tom Jones.

It was beautiful. This was epically awesome.

And truth be told, he was actually pretty good. Unfortunately, it was also pretty embarrassing. John held back a sympathetic wince when Sherlock spun around, did the splits and got back up in the same line of the song. Thankfully it was successful and Sherlock seemed unfazed by it. He continued dancing, waving his arms around, and lip-syncing into the candle. John made a memo in his head to ask Sherlock when he had become so good at dancing.

He was half way through the song, when John decided to stand up. He watched with whole-hearted amusement as Sherlock screeched to a halt, his eyes filled with horror.

"Hi there," John said nonchalantly as if he'd just got back. He headed towards the kitchen. "Do you want some Chinese tonight? Personally, I'm craving some Thai food."

Sherlock ignored the question and leapt over the couch to turn off the music. Then he stumbled into the kitchen.

"How long have you been standing there?" He asked hoarsely.

John gave a small grin. He was feeling much better; his troubles at the clinic were forgotten completely.

"Not long," He lied to his friend who had donned a relived expression on his face. John put the kettle on and sat down at the table. "Now that I know that you're a fan of Fresh Prince of Bel-air, can I call it the Sherlock from now on?"

Sherlock stared at John for a brief moment before handing him the candlestick and marching away. John giggled when he heard Sherlock's bedroom door slam shut.

"Goodnight to you too!" He said to his friend and then got up to fix himself a cup of tea.

_Words: 1500+_

_AN: I was watching Carlton Banks dance awhile ago. It was so amusing and awkward, especially when Will caught him, and it inspired me to write this story. I am calling this story __Adventures in TV land__ because you will have Sherlock doing or alluding to some memorable stuff from some of my favourite TV shows. _

_The next chapter will have segments from one of my favourite British comedy shows. _

_Please feel free to favourite, follow, review or whatever if you want more chapters. Any questions or suggestions can go straight to my PM box and I will make sure to answer them as quickly as possible. _

_Cheers,_

_BOZ1310- August 13__th__, 2013_


	2. The Bovvered Detective

"Well, how do I look?"

Sherlock Holmes looked up from an edition of _Scientist Now_, a magazine he had recently subscribed to, and directed his attention to his over-dressed flat mate and friend. John Watson had stepped out of his room in a pair of dress pants, a dress shirt, and a strange vest-coat hybrid that frankly made him look like a knob. Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and turned his attention back to the article he was reading.

"Sherlock, I asked you a question." John said in a frustrated tone. "You don't think I'm over-dressed, do you?"

"I think it's perfectly adequate for a first date." Sherlock lied with an evil grin. "You're not over-dressed at all."

"You don't think so?"

"I'm sure she'll love having a personal butler. What with you being short and stubby, all you need is a coat and you can arrive at the restaurant looking like an Adélie Penguin. The resemblance is uncanny."

"Thanks for that Sherlock. That is just what I need to hear tonight, my best mate comparing my stature and clothing choices to that of a combination between Alfred and an awkward and flightless bird." John grumbled and headed back into his room.

"Don't make fun of the penguins, John." Sherlock said seriously. "They are a majestic species. They are the people's bird."

Sherlock heard shuffling noises, a sharp bump, and a loud swear word. He smirked to himself. In all his fury, John had not noticed the outer left table leg belonging to that wretched desk of his and had stubbed his pinky toe yet again. Moments later, the blond man limped out angrily in a good quality jumper.

"Much better, it suits you." Sherlock said teasingly. "And it brings out your eyes."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." John said scathingly. "I don't even know why I continue to ask you what you think of things pertaining to my appearance or my love life. I honestly don't. I always end up with a half-assed answer and a bullet lodged into the wall."

"Einstein once said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." Sherlock muttered, flipping a page rather loudly. "Hint, hint."

John ignored the comment and grabbed his coat from the nearby coat rack with a huff.

"Well, I'm off." He said, slipping his phone into his front pocket. "Don't call or text me unless it is an emergency-and by emergency, I mean something that is critically endangering your physical or mental health. No, Sherlock, not bothering to answer the phone or the doorbell is not considered critically endangering. In fact, don't text me unless something is significantly harming your 'mortal well-being'."

Sherlock gave a quick nod.

"I know, John."

"Also, please eat something. It's been hours since you've had a meal." John added, venturing into the kitchen. Ignoring the suspiciously new stains on the dining table, he opened the refrigerator. "I've put some of the leftover pasta into this container. When you get hungry, all you have to do is put it in the microwave and nuke it for two minutes with the lid off."

"Yes, mother." Sherlock retorted, flipping through the magazine. He was no longer interested in it anymore and contemplated cancelling the subscription.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. You need to eat something. You're too thin as it is." John mumbled. "And please respect my request that you don't interfere with my date tonight. I think she's different from anyone else I've ever met. I mean, different in a good way, of course. This date with Mary means a lot to me. I hope you can understand that."

"Aye, aye captain." Sherlock said, putting on a fake smile. "Go have your fun with Mary and don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Alright then," John said pleasantly. "Bye, Sherlock."

Sherlock heard the heavy trodden steps as John raced downstairs and out the door.

Sherlock threw the magazine aside and turned on the television. He flipped between a few channels before settling for BBC Two.

_So this is what I have become,_ he thought miserably, _a law-abiding, couch-sprawling, comedy-watching, friend-waiting, pasta-digesting idiot. Sherlock Holmes, you've really let yourself go, haven't you?_

He was halfway through a show when his blackberry began vibrating loudly on the desk next to him. He sullenly checked it. As he suspected, it wasn't John. It was Lestrade.

As per usual, the detective inspector's message was laden with grammatical errors and sounded desperate beyond belief.

Sherlock gave a sigh.

_46 Gowrie Rd _

_ Dead Bdy_

_ Quite Strange_

_ Come ASAP._

Sherlock got up, put on his scarf and coat, and headed for the door. He hailed for the first cab he saw and headed for the Borough of Wandsworth. Even though he had no idea how interesting or peculiar the circumstances surrounding the death of the person were, he didn't have anything better to do with his time than to at least check it out.

Sherlock fought the urge to shoot himself in the head. The only thing that kept him from doing the deed right in front of Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard was that he knew that John would be upset and that these buffoons standing before him were far too undeserving of cleaning up his gray matter. The case was boring to say the least. He solved it in less than a minute. Good god- a monkey wearing a diaper and sunglasses could have figured out who the murderer was and yet here he stood, case-cracking extraordinaire, on a dusty floor babysitting these good-for-nothing, reputation-burning, tax-wasting members of society.

And Anderson was there, standing beside him. That was just the cherry on top of the crap-filled sundae that was his luck.

Just as Sherlock Holmes was about to tell Lestrade who the murderer was, an idea dawned on him. He turned away. He hid a smirk and arranged his hands under his chin so that they were in their usual steeple-like position. Then, he faced the detective with a dramatic stare.

"They say that death has many faces Lestrade," He began. "You know, facially."

"What?" The gray haired man asked.

"What is this fellow's name?" Sherlock continued and began to pace around the inspector

"Phillip O'Toole," Lestrade answered. He was surprised that Sherlock was asking him. "He worked for the Smith and Sons Accounting Firm."

"I see," Sherlock nodded along. "How do we know he's not still working for the Smith and Sons Accounting Firm?"

Lestrade blinked.

"He's… dead?"

"But is he?" Sherlock asked with a mysterious smile.

Lestrade furrowed his brows in confusion.

"Yeah, he is."

"But is he really?"

"Yes,"

"But is he _really_? How can you be so sure?" Sherlock drawled on.

"He's as cold as an ice cube." Lestrade started. "We couldn't detect a pulse, which means that his heart has failed. Plus, he has a bullet wound in his abdomen."

"But does he?" Sherlock edged on. "How do you know?"

"I can see the damned bullet lodged into his flesh." Lestrade answered angrily.

"But is it a real bullet?" Sherlock questioned slowly. "What is real? How do you know this isn't my dream? Or your dream? Or maybe John's dream as he's wasting away on his important date at the restaurant?"

"What-"

"Let's look at this from a different angle," Sherlock explained inconspicuously as he knelt down beside the body.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade inquired. He was more bewildered than ever.

"Let us suppose for hypothetical purposes that none of this is real."

"What?"

"If this isn't real, then this body wouldn't be here." Sherlock said. "You wouldn't be here. I wouldn't here. Most of all, Anderson would certainly not be here."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Lestrade yelled.

"When I was child, I was part of a theatrical group," Sherlock explained. "I learned more about detective work from the clowns and musical personnel than I ever did from… that place… where I learned to become a detective."

"I'm not sure where you're going with this."

Sherlock stood up and walked towards Lestrade. He leaned in and whispered into the inspector's ear mysteriously.

"It took Adam and Eve one minute to fall from grace in the Garden of Eden and yet growing a layered bob can take forever."

Lestrade finally understood what he meant.

"You're just fucking with me aren't you?" He asked.

Sherlock nodded sincerely, breaking out of the role.

"It was the boyfriend." Sherlock muttered. "Obviously, look at the stains on his shirt! No, not the bloodstains, these ones right here. You know, I'm surprised Anderson didn't figure it out in the time it took me to finish my whole pointless schpeal. Actually, I'm not- he's an idiot. Do you know why I went on that tangent and asked you those seemingly pointless questions? You know that confusion and frustration and pain you're feeling right now? That's how I always feel when I am dragged to these crime scenes against my will and forced to help you solve a mind-numbingly boring case such as this one. I'm just trying to put it into perspective, DI."

"Wow…" Lestrade muttered to himself.

"And just when I thought you were improving…" Sherlock shook his head mockingly.

"I think he's just upset that his _boyfriend _finally recognized his priorities and abandoned him to join the rest of the world." Anderson squealed with a sneer on his rotten face.

Sherlock spun around angrily. He marched straight up to the member of the Forensics team and leered at him.

"Am I _bovvered_?" He asked, his accent suddenly changing into a Chav-like one.

Anderson frowned slightly.

"What?"

"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" Sherlock asked quietly. "I said, am I bovvered?"

"What are you-"

"Look at my face,"

"What"

"Bovvered?"

"You-"

"Face," Sherlock's voice grew louder. "Bovvered. Am I? Look at my face, is it bovvered? Are you disrespecting me?!"

"How-"

"Bovvered! IQ-Lowering"

"H-"

"Rock-"

"Why-"

"Bovvered, face, bovvered, idiot-"

"Can-"

"Face, bovvered," Sherlock yelled. "I'm still not BOVVERED!"

Anderson closed his mouth in astonishment, unable to say anything else.

Sherlock cleared his throat and calmly fixed his scarf and coat.

"I'm looking forward to reading about the court case," He murmured and walked away, leaving the whole of Scotland Yard in an utter daze of disbelief.

_Words: 1,780+_

_AN: This segment of the story had elements that were taken from The Catherine Tate Show! The two sketches that inspired me to write this chapter were The Enigmatic Cop, and the more renowned sketch-Lauren Cooper. _

_Next chapter will be inspired by my favourite medical show- Scrubs!_

_Other than that my internet buddies, feel free to favourite, follow, review or whatever. Any questions can go straight to my PM box and I will make sure to answer them as quickly as possible. _

_I really hope that you have enjoyed reading this story!_

_Cheers,_

_BOZ1310- August 14__th__, 2013_


	3. Coats

It was a typical Sunday morning in 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was loafing around on the couch, dragging himself up and into the kitchen every now and then to check on his recent skin mold experiment. John was sitting in the warm comforts of his armchair trying to ignore the strange smells coming from Sherlock's skin mold experiment. He was typing up new posts as well as responding to the comments on previous posts on his blog. Since he relied solely upon his index fingers to get the job done, it was taking him a while. But he did not mind. After all, the crime fighting duo had just finished solving a most peculiar case for a rather illustrious client, and much to their dismay, Lestrade didn't have any cases that required the consultation of any outside parties. There was nothing else to do at the moment but to have a rest and complete some of the more menial tasks at hand.

The peaceful atmosphere changed into one of tension with the beep of a phone-John's phone to be exact. Lodged into a drunken stupor, a side effect of severe ennui, John unlocked his mobile and checked the text message carelessly. As he read the message he felt his stomach drop and his mind clear as if someone had pimp-slapped him in the face. When he realized who had sent the text, he was only too happy be to sitting down already.

_Coming over_

_ See you soon _

_ Favour to ask_

_ H_

Pipette in hand, Sherlock was adding the final touches to his experiment when he noticed John heading into the kitchen with a nervous expression on his face. His fingers were twitching anxiously and his forehead was all wrinkled in thought.

"Is something wrong?" He asked casually, swirling an Erlenmeyer flask around.

"No," John responded curtly. The doctor put the kettle on to boil and then fixed himself a cup of tea. Sherlock noticed the unfamiliar precision and concentration his friend displayed when he made the beverage. He noted the rhythmic tapping on the mug and the fiddling with the teabag. He realized that John had changed into a cleaner pair of trousers and a better quality jumper. He noticed the slight twitch in John's left eye.

"You might as well tell me what is wrong since something is clearly bothering you," Sherlock sighed. "Who's coming over?"

John remained silent. He calmly sipped at his tea. He spent a few minutes picking at a loose thread hanging off his jumper, ignoring the looks Sherlock was giving him. After some time John finally spoke, albeit hesitantly.

"How would you react if I told you that my sister was coming for a visit in about ten minutes?" John asked his friend. "And that she's probably going to get very pissed if she's not already very pissed and ask for our money. Would you mind?"

Sherlock Holmes blinked dumbly. He looked down at his experiment and realized that he no longer found it interesting enough to continue. Harry Watson. Harriet Freaking Watson. The last time she came over for a visit… let's just say it didn't end well. At all. It was terrifyingly bad. Not only was Harry an alcoholic and unfaithful, but she was also very neurotic. John and his sister had gotten into a huge argument about her alcoholism and it eventually escalated into an argument about the lack of love their parents had given the both of them. If there was one thing Harry was talented at, it was talking quickly. In fact she often spoke so quickly that the words coming out of her mouth melded together to form waves of indiscernible gibberish. There had been screaming and plate throwing galore. Harry's high-pitched screams threatened to shatter their windows. To the horror of the consulting detective, his violin had been damaged in the fight. His beloved and priceless Stradivarius- the present his mother gave to him for his eighth birthday. The innocent bystander who clearly wanted no part in the row had been unjustly injured. In actuality, the damage hadn't been critical, but it was enough for Sherlock to enter a spiraling pit of boiling rage. Knackered with emotion, he had threatened to murder John's sister, among other equally heinous things, and somehow the Watsons decided to gang up and turn their anger on him. Harry started screaming at him for threatening her well-being and John started screaming at him for threatening his sister's well-being. In short, there had been a lot of gratuitous screaming and aggression and as a result,_ a lot_ of _Fisherman's Friend_ purchasing. Worst of all, after the incident Sherlock and John didn't speak to each other for a whole week. It was safe to say that Sherlock did not want to repeat the calamity that nearly ruined his friendship with John.

"Sherlock, you're okay with this visit, right?" John asked again, snapping his friend out of his reverie.

"John, do you want to know how I feel about Harriet coming over?" Sherlock asked him in a deadly tone. "Just because you're you, I'm going to come up with a list of things I care as little about as the current status of your quirky sister. Let me see, where should I begin? Well… there's Mycroft's diet, Michael Moore, the identity of our prime minister, sousaphones, Oktoberfest, Hasbro and all Hasbro related products, Men at Work, High-Def TV, wireless hot spots, Malta, the OC, the UN, recycling, getting 'Punk'd', Latin Grammys, real Grammys, safety dancing, Jeff- that purple Wiggle who just sleeps _too_ darn much, Pina Coladas, getting caught in the rain, every hybrid car, every talk show host-_including_ Graham Norton, everything on the planet, everything in the solar system, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything…"

John glanced at his watch for moment and stifled a frustrated sigh.

"Everything, everything, everything," Sherlock continued angrily. "Everything that exists past, present, and future in all discovered and undiscovered dimensions… oh… and Anderson."

"I'm going to take that as a 'yes' then," John murmured. "As usual, your ever so eloquent answer has taken up an unnecessary portion of my already limited time that could have been spent on doing something far more productive like hiding all the alcohol in this flat or putting your violin safely in its case and into your room."

"It's too late for that, John." Sherlock told him disdainfully. "The deed has been done."

"I see," John said rolling his eyes. "If you'd like to help me, I would really appreciate it. I'm going to Harry-proof the flat now."

"Have fun." Sherlock said with a wide grin and made no attempt to help his friend. He was still pretty upset about the bomb that John dropped on him moments ago and decided to punish him by leaving the doctor to bubble-wrap the corners of the tables and cabinets on his own.

"I know you're still upset about what happened last time," John started as he sorted through the edible and inedible items in the refrigerator. "I'm dreading this visit as much as you are. However, I know you'll be on your best behaviour this time around. We'll _both_ be on our best behaviours."

"She still hasn't paid for the repair." Sherlock grumbled. "Do you know how many people there are who are certified to repair Stradivariuses in all of London? None at all. At least no one who won't guarantee a crap job at doing it. I had to fly all the way to Cremona to fix my violin!"

"Your arms must have been tired."

"That's not funny, John."

"It's a little bit funny."

"Not in the slightest."

"Hang on a sec," John said with a frown. "I paid five hundred dollars already for the repairs on behalf of my sister."

"That's not the same." Sherlock explained. "I didn't use that money because you didn't damage my violin. She needs to learn from her own mistakes and realize that she is a grown up with responsibilities of her own. I am still waiting for the five hundred dollars from Ms. Harriet Watson. Hopefully she can bring it to me today. As a matter of fact, you should send her a text about that. It doesn't have to be cash. Tell her that I am quite lenient about the method of payment."

"What the hell did you do with my money?"

"That's none of your business."

"I want it back in my bank account by the end of the week." John firmly told him.

"That's not possible," Sherlock exclaimed. "I couldn't possibly do that! I don't know your PIN number."

"Sure you don't, you just know the passwords to everything else that's meant to be my privacy." John muttered. "Why don't you ask your brother then? I'm sure he knows."

"Good point."

Just then, they heard the doorbell and then the sound of the front door opening. They heard the telltale sounds of footsteps in the hallway. They grew louder and louder as the owner of the feet click-clacked up the stairs. Overall, they were fast paced and steady.

"Good news. She's sober." Sherlock told the doctor. "And she's wearing six inch stilettos."

"That's nice to know," John responded. "On both accounts."

John headed over to the door and opened it in time for Harry to walk in without breaking her pace. She wore a canary yellow sundress and light blue heels. Her blonde hair was curled into ringlets that fell to her waist. Her makeup seemed professionally done and her lips shined with a rose tinted gloss. To his amusement, Sherlock noticed that John's sister had the word 'Love' in Elvish tattooed to her ankle. Needless to say, she appeared to be in a far better state than she did the last time she came to visit.

"Hello boys!" She said enthusiastically. "How's it going?"

"Good morning, Harriet." Sherlock said with a forced smile. "It's going."

"Hi sis," John greeted her as she handed him a couple of plastic bags filled with glassware. "What's this?"

"It's Korean food-mostly kimchi and other side dishes. My girlfriend made it for you guys when I told her you guys had never eaten authentic Korean food before. She's a Korean chef." Harry explained and faltered slightly. "At least, I think she's Korean. I know she's a chef… anyway, I'm sure it'll be delicious."

"Give her my thanks." John said graciously and headed into the kitchen to put the food in the fridge.

Harry strolled over and sat down on the couch next to Sherlock. Sherlock silently sulked to himself as she explained why she had paid them a visit.

"You're probably wondering why I'm here." She began.

"I presume it's about your financial safety, or therefore lack of…" Sherlock whispered under his breath.

"I heard that," Harry snapped at him. "I'm sitting next to you."

"So you are," Sherlock said shaking his head. "I see the Watsons are ever so talented for their insightful observations."

"What's wrong, Harry?" John asked ignoring Sherlock's jibes. "What do you need from me?"

Harry's expression changed suddenly. Her icy blue eyes flashed coldly.

"Why do you always assume that I need something from you?" She asked in disbelief, her hair shaking back and forth like golden vines. "Why can't I just visit you and see how you're doing as your sister?"

"Why do you always have to react so emotionally when you come over?" John asked. "Last time, you practically burst into tears when you stepped into the room."

"I was PMSing and Sherlock made fun of my shoes." Harry mumbled. "Don't steer me off this conversation. Answer my question. Tell me why you think so poorly of me."

"If what you're saying is the case, then you can tell me now. However, if it's not, I will continue to uphold my presumption." John shot back. "So far, all of your visits have been consisting of you asking for things, primarily money or booze, and then throwing a tantrum like a petulant and bratty teenager when you don't get it."

"Don't you dare try to insult me by comparing my emotional side to that of a teenage girl's. I was a teenage girl before." Harry said angrily. "You don't know what it's like to be a teenage girl."

"I should hope so…" Sherlock retorted and John sniggered quietly.

"It's an awkward time," Harry told them miserably, staring into space. "You know…your breasts are growing, not always symmetrically but you learn to deal with that. You're supposed to like boys, but then you find out you actually like girls after realizing that you spend a good portion of time in the change room watching your best friend take off her shirt. Maybe she decides to give you a ride home and you think something is going happen, but it doesn't and that just makes it official that you're a lop-sided freak!"

John stared at his sister, speechless. Sherlock sighed hopelessly and ruffled his curls, trying as hard as he could to delete everything she had just said from his mind palace.

"Happy ending though," She concluded. "Lefty caught up in university."

"Jolly good." Sherlock said with a smile.

"Alright then," John said giving in. "It's nice to have you finally visit us like the mature adult that you are. How can I be of assistance?"

"Look, we haven't told anyone of this yet, so Michelle and I agreed to come to you two first. Ever since Clara and I separated, no one has been able to make me happy, except for Michelle." Harry began hesitantly. "This is the most nerve-wracking thing I've ever done and I was having an _affair_ for a week in high school. My English teacher thought that pimply, pubescent teenagers with self-esteem issues were sexy."

"Wait, you were sleeping with Mrs. Peterson?" John broke in with a horrified look on his face. "No wonder you were always late! In my year, I think she was sleeping with Chelsea Woodworth who had abnormally large boobs. She always got the highest marks in class even though she never handed in half of her assignments."

"Yeah and she was married and everything." Harry remarked. "She was also forty years my senior which meant that we usually had to do it in the classroom closet, kind of ironic eh?"

"This is the stupidest conversation I've ever had the misfortune to sit through." Sherlock added cynically, ignoring Harry's burning glare.

"Anyways, we've been thinking about it and I want to ask you if you will walk me down the altar." Harry asked her brother. "You know that dad can't do it since he's dead and well… I don't know if we'll need a best man given that there isn't going to be a groom present at the wedding."

"You and the Korean chef are getting married?" John questioned.

"Yeah." Harry confirmed with an excited nod. "So, will you?"

"Of course I will." John said with a genuinely warm smile. "I'm honoured. I'd be happy to do so."

"That's great, thanks a lot." Harry said and went over to hug her brother.

John returned the hug wholeheartedly.

"I'm so happy for you." John said, getting up as well. "And I'm sorry for being such a jerk about you coming over to visit."

"Well I'm sorry for acting like a douchebag and confirming the assumptions you've been making about the supposed shallow reasons for my visits." Harry said. "Michelle has been helping me with my drinking problem and I'm proud to say that I've been sober for six months."

"That's wonderful!" John said with a laugh.

"Yeah, she's great." Harry said with a dreamy smile.

"I'll just assume you two have already RSVPed ." she said, getting up. "We're still going over preliminary details about the ceremony so I'll email you the final details when the time comes."

"Wait, did you just say that Sherlock and I were RSPVing ?"

"Yeah, so?"

"You make it sound as if we're married or something."

"John, we're a little married." Sherlock pointed out. John conceded with a sigh.

"Fair enough."

_Words: 2,800+_

_AN: This chapter was influenced off of the medical show Scrubs! Some of the lines are based off of Dr. Cox rants or Elliot Reid stories. I imagined Harry to be a combination of Molly Clock and Elliot Reid. The last lines were from a conversation between JD and Turk. It's guy love between two guys for Sherlock and John as well. I don't really ship them as an OTP, I never have personally, but I have a lot of friends who do and I see how it is reasonable in this version. Rather I see Johnlock as a BrOTP. _

_My BrOTPs are RonxGrell, Shawn and Gus, JD and Turk, Sherlock and John, etc. Let me know some of your OTP/BrOTP in the message box! _

_Apparently this show is also quite popular in France and Germany as well and I suppose it is understandable since it is freaking hilarious. German JD sounds awesome!_

_I have no idea what show I should base the next chapter off of. If you have any suggestions, let me know in the comments/reviews! _

_Other than that my internet buddies, feel free to favourite, follow, review or whatever. Any questions can go straight to my PM box and I will make sure to answer them as quickly as possible. _

_I really hope that you have enjoyed reading this chapter!_

_Cheers,_

_BOZ1310- August 15, 2013_


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